


Vitae Interruptus

by DeadshotMusketeer



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-20
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-11-16 07:25:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11249088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeadshotMusketeer/pseuds/DeadshotMusketeer
Summary: Complete.  One shot- Aramis centred with mild whump.  D'Artagnan inadvertently awakens bad memories for Aramis, who must now find a way to move past them with Porthos' help.  Author's Note- When writing this, my memory of the series' events served me wrong.  This story assumes Aramis knew his pistol was used by the Cardinal to kill Adele, so it is therefore slightly AU.





	Vitae Interruptus

Vitae Interruptus

by DeadShotMusketeer

With his legs propped on the garrison’s courtyard table, his chair tilted back against the bottom newel of the staircase and his hat resting low on his brow, Aramis believed he was the perfect embodiment of one not wanting to be disturbed, yet d’Artagnan’s arrival and eager voice proved otherwise.

“Did you see this?” asked d’Artagnan.

Aramis lifted an eyelid and peered at the young man before closing it again.

D’Artagnan smacked a piece of paper on the table and sat down.

Aramis sighed before dropping his legs to the ground and righting his chair. “What is it?” he asked, glancing at the parchment.

“The King is hosting a fair tomorrow,” said d’Artagnan, pointing at the top of parchment. “In honour of Rochefort’s return. Amongst other events, there’s to be a marksmanship competition.”

Aramis reclined his chair and crossed his ankles back on the table. “I see,” he said, closing his eyes.

“And?” 

“And what?”

D’Artagnan nudged his legs. “You’re going to participate, aren’t you?”

“Why would I do that?”

“You’re the best shot I’ve seen,” replied d’Artagnan. “That the garrison has ever seen.” 

Aramis nestled further into his chair, hoping the young man would leave him to his nap.

“Aramis? Aramis?”

“I have nothing to prove,” replied Aramis. 

“It’s not about proving yourself,” said d’Artagnan. “There’s a rather large purse for the winner… I just thought you might need the money to purchase a new…”

Aramis opened his eyes. “There’s a sword competition as well,” he said. “Are you going to ask Athos to participate?”

“Doesn’t seem the sort to enter these types of things,” replied d’Artagnan.

“But I do?” spat Aramis. 

D’Artagnan rose to his feet. “I’m sorry I asked,” he said. “I just thought since you needed a new pistol…”

Aramis glared.

D’Artagnan snatched the parchment off the table. “I’m sorry I brought it up,” he stated, backing away.

Aramis waited for d’Artagnan to leave the courtyard before righting his chair. He respected the young man’s attempt to help him move past Adele’s death, but Aramis wasn’t yet ready to address neither the loss of his lover nor its ramifications.

He dropped his head into his hands and stared through his fingers at the splintered wood of the tabletop.   Aramis had suffered a broken heart when he’d heard Adele had left him for the Cardinal, but when he’d learned of her murder by his pistol, his heart had burned to ash upon which he choked each night.

Aramis’ heart fluttered, his fingers trembled. The exchange with d’Artagnan had woken memories of Adele that he knew he couldn’t fight off alone, so he rose from the table and headed for Porthos’ room.

Aramis entered without knocking to find his friend trimming his beard in front of a faded mirror. “I need to see it,” he said.

“Are you sure?” asked Porthos.

“Yes.”

Porthos put his blade down and stepped back with a questioning gaze.

Aramis flushed, but he needed to do this so he held his ground.

“Now?” asked Porthos.

Aramis gazed at the chest sitting at the foot of his friend’s bed. “Yes, now,” he replied. 

With each backward step Porthos took toward the chest, Aramis’ heart thumped. He knew that once thoughts of Adele entered his mind there was only one way to get rid of them, which was to face his demons head on regardless of how much it hurt.

Porthos crouched beside the chest, lifted the lid and reached inside. He pulled out an object wrapped in cloth and stood. “Are you sure you want to see this?” he asked. “It didn’t go so well the last time you asked.”

Aramis swallowed the lump moving up his throat and stared at the bundle in Porthos’ hands. “I remember,” he said. “But I must.”

As Porthos approached, Aramis’ insides twisted into knots. His resolve was crumbling so he nodded at the dresser. Porthos laid the bundle carefully on top and retreated to the small table in the middle of the room.

“This needs wine, my friend,” Porthos said, pouring out two full glasses from an open bottle.

Aramis appreciated the gesture but didn’t respond. After staring at the bundle for several moments, he closed his eyes, took a deep breath and grabbed the package. He turned it over and peeled back the linen. Blood rushed from his head, causing him to sway. The dresser beside him caught his fall wherein he took another moment to breathe deeply.

“I must do this,” he said.

He looked again at the familiar, gold-inlayed pistol cradled in the cloth. The smell of sulphur still lingered for he hadn’t the courage to clean the weapon since it was last used by the Cardinal to murder Adele.

_Sweet Adele… You didn’t deserve…_

Aramis placed the pistol on the dresser and stepped back. He swept his tongue across his lips, savouring the existential taste of honey. During their more playful nights of passion, Adele had teased him with different flavours on her lips, but Aramis enjoyed the sticky sweetness of honey the most.

He ran a hand down his face to pull himself back from the edge of despair before turning to Porthos sitting at the table. Aramis crossed the room and fell into a chair beside his friend, and with a trembling hand he accepted the glass of wine Porthos was offering him. 

Aramis gulped it back, slammed the glass back on the table and gestured for a refill. Porthos obliged and within moments that wine was gone as well.

“D’Artagnan thinks I need a new pistol.”

“That’s your favourite,” Porthos said, nodding at the one on the dresser.

“ _Was_ my favourite.” 

“Do you think you’ll ever use it again?”

Aramis sighed. “I don’t know,” he said. “I haven’t the strength to clean it.”

Porthos leaned over the table. “It reeks of her death, Aramis.” 

“You don’t have to remind me!”

“You brought it to me for a reason,” said Porthos. “You had it stashed away ever since Adele’s maid returned it to you. And the night you heard about Adele’s murder you gave it to me for safe keepin’. I understand you aren’t ready to get rid of it, but it’s only collecting dust and bad feelings sitting in my chest.”

“What would you have me do?” 

“Either destroy it or use it,” replied Porthos. “Otherwise, I will.”

Aramis smiled. “It would be too much for you to handle,” he said.

Porthos chuckled softly. “Oh, I don’t know… Might make me as good as you.”

Aramis raised his eyebrows.

“Okay, maybe not,” said Porthos. “But at least it wouldn’t be harbouring guilt slung on my belt.” 

“She was killed because of me,” said Aramis.

“She was killed because of revenge,” replied Porthos.

“Against me,” said Aramis. “And now I shall never find retribution. I cannot avenge her. I cannot make the Cardinal suffer for his malice. I have nowhere to discharge my anger except upon myself. It can be said the Cardinal invoked the perfect revenge on me, for I am to suffer for all eternity.”

“But you’re alive,” replied Porthos. “And they say living well is the best revenge.”

“The Cardinal is dead, Porthos. He knows not how I live.”

A noise at the door caught both their attentions and they turned toward the disturbance.

D’Artagnan entered quickly, stopping short of the table. “Oh… You’re… You’re both here.”

“And this perplexes you?” asked Aramis, pushing out an empty chair with his foot. 

Based on d’Artagnan’s fidgety stance, Aramis recognized the young man meant to find Porthos alone, but Aramis wanted an outlet for his despair so he patted the empty seat next to him. “Come. Sit. Share what’s on your mind.”

Aramis’ ploy to trigger an argument worked, for d’Artagnan took the seat.

“You’re on my mind, Aramis,” said d’Artagnan.   “I came to see if Porthos could help me talk some sense into you.”

Aramis rallied his self-confidence and smiled. “Do your worst,” he said, gesturing for his two friends to converse in his presence.

D’Artagnan crossed his hands on the table. “Very well,” he said, before looking directly at Porthos. “Aramis is being silly and childish, and he needs to purchase a new pistol and get over Adele.” 

“Cheers to that,” said Porthos, raising his glass.

Aramis frowned and bitterly retorted, “Why don’t we bring Athos in and see if he also shares your opinion?”

“He’s at the Palace with Treville,” stated d’Artagnan. “Now what’s it going to be?”

“You ask a lot of me, young friend,” replied Aramis. “What do you know of the loss I’ve suffered?”

D’Artagnan shifted in his seat. “My father,” he said.

“Yes, I’m sorry,” replied Aramis. He cleared his throat and looked away. “But it is not the same. Your father was murdered in a ploy to destroy the Musketeer regiment. Adele’s murder rests directly upon my shoulders.”

“Loss is loss, Aramis,” said Porthos.

“But the circumstances surrounding our losses differs greatly,” spat Aramis.   He rose from the table and tucked in his chair. “When you have loved such as I have we can proceed with this conversation. Until then…”

Aramis had wanted to free the anger building inside him since d’Artagnan first showed him the parchment, which was why he’d provoked the young man into initiating the conversation in Porthos’ room. It was easier to be angry than sad, and much easier to act than lament. But as he left the room his emotions got the better of him and he slammed the door behind him.

By the time Aramis entered the courtyard he was fuming. He strode across the open space toward the gates of the garrison where he was nearly run over by Athos and Treville returning on horseback from the Palace.

“I need you in my office,” said Treville.

Aramis adjusted his hat, glanced past the gates to the city streets beyond beckoning to embrace him with their distractions, then turned back to his captain. “Can it wait?”

“Yes,” replied Treville. “But it won’t. Gather your cohorts and report to my office.”

Treville slid off his horse and led it into the stables while Athos slid off his and remained at Aramis’ side.

“Something troubling you?” asked Athos.

Aramis forced a smile. “Nothing of importance,” he replied. “Now what is that has our captain so eager to see us all?”

Athos replied with an equally forced smile and said, “nothing of importance, I assure you.”

“Very well,” replied Aramis. “Our cohorts are in Porthos’ quarters. I will meet you in Treville’s office.”

He turned and left Athos to gather their brothers and climbed the stairs leading to the captain’s office two at a time. When he entered the office, Treville was standing over his desk studying a large parchment.

“Where are the others?” asked Treville.

“Coming,” replied Aramis. He picked a spot to stand and wait, several feet from the desk and near the wall as to discourage anyone from standing next to him. When his brothers entered, d’Artagnan sat on the corner of Treville’s desk, Porthos sat in a chair and Athos stood amongst them darting his eyes from to the other with a questioning frown.

“It seems we have no choice but to participate in the King’s impossibly extravagant affair concerning Rochefort’s return,” stated Treville.

Aramis’ eyes fell on the parchment spread across Treville’s desk. “Not this again,” he said.

“Not what again?” asked Athos.

“Just leave him be,” said d’Artagnan.

“I don’t know what’s going on between you,” stated Treville. “But I take it you’ve seen this notice before?”

D’Artagnan lowered his head and stared at his lap. “I found one posted on the garrison wall and brought it to Aramis’ attention…”

“I thought we were leaving me be?” muttered Aramis.

“You need to deal with this Aramis!” barked Porthos.

“Just because I chose to deal with this privately doesn’t mean I’m not dealing with it!” replied Aramis. He paced a small circle at the back of Treville’s office to curtail his anger.

“What’s going on here?” demanded Treville.

“I haven’t a clue,” replied Athos.

“Well deal with it later,” said Treville. “The King wants us in full regalia for these competitions, and on our best behaviour. Athos, you will represent the regiment in the duelling competition. Aramis will of course participate in marksmanship…”

“What if I refuse?” asked Aramis.

Treville frowned. “Why would you refuse? You’re the best shot in France.”

“He doesn’t want a new pistol,” stated d’Artagnan.

“But yet he doesn’t want his old one…” added Porthos.

“I still don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Treville.

“Nor do I,” said Athos.

“Why must my skills be put on display just to satisfy the King’s need to celebrate a scoundrels’ return!” shouted Aramis. “Why does everyone feel the need to have me forget Adele!”

Aramis stormed out of the office, slamming the door behind him.

_~Musketeers~_

“What was that about?” asked Treville.

“I think I’m beginning to understand,” replied Athos. He turned to Porthos and levelled his stare. “What did you say to him?”

Porthos stood. “Me? What makes you think I caused this?”

Athos turned to d’Artagnan. “Then you. What did you say to Aramis to bring this on?”

D’Artagnan rose to his feet, furrowed his brow. “I just thought Aramis might want a new pistol to replace the one…” His eyes moved to Treville. “The one he lost. I didn’t mean to trigger all this.”

“Well you did,” said Porthos. “And now that the can of worms is opened, we’ve gotta find a way to stuff it all back in.”

D’Artagnan pointed a finger at Porthos’ chest. “Don’t put this on me,” he said. “You were in complete agreement with me in your room!”

“Stop!” yelled Athos. He braced his hands on his hips and drew in a long breath. “What’s done is done.”

“What’s done?” asked Treville. “I’m still in the dark here.”

Athos straightened his back and turned to the captain. “It is… a private matter,” he said. “But rest assured, we will take care of it. We will be at the fair in uniform, and you can assure the King we will be on our best behaviour.”

Athos pointed to the door of Treville’s office wherein d’Artagnan and Porthos left without a word. He followed after them and met them at the courtyard table. 

“Why is Adele being spoken of?” hissed Athos. “And why is the prospect of a new pistol upsetting Aramis? He needs one. His other is gone.”

“About that,” said Porthos.

Athos glared at him. “What?”

“It’s not exactly gone. I’ve been keeping it safe in my room.”

Athos turned to d’Artagnan. “You knew about this?”

“No,” replied d’Artagnan. “That’s why I suggested Aramis purchase a new pistol with the winnings at the fair.”

“Aramis refuses to let the pistol used to murder Adele go… or use it,” explained Porthos. He stared at the ground and shook his head. “Every time he asks to see it I feel his heart breaking. So when d’Artagnan suggested he take the winnings from the fair to buy a new one I thought it was a good idea. But now I’m not so sure. This is really upsettin’ him.”

Athos rubbed his forehead. “He hadn’t said a word to me,” he said in a breathy tone. Athos believed Aramis had put Adele behind him, but in light of this new information, he realized he was wrong.

He understood Aramis’ inability to let go of a painful part of his past, but he also knew where that road led if it wasn’t dealt with. “We must see him through this,” he said. “I promised the captain we would all be at Rochefort’s formal welcoming, and I don’t intend on breaking my word.”

“And…” added Porthos, “…because it’s what’s best for Aramis.”

Athos sighed. “Of course.”

“Where do we start?” asked d’Artagnan.

“We find him,” replied Athos.

Porthos looked across the courtyard at the entryway to their private quarters. “I have an idea where he might have gone.”

Athos and d’Artagnan followed Porthos across the courtyard and back inside the walls of the garrison. Athos heard Aramis grumbling down the hall and pushed past Porthos. He entered Porthos’ personal quarters to find Aramis stuffing a pistol into his belt.

“Is that the one?” Athos asked over his shoulder.

“Yeah, that’s it,” replied Porthos.

Athos planted himself in front of Aramis, took a deep breath and placed his hands on his hips. “What are you doing?” he asked Aramis.

Aramis mimicked Athos’ stance and stared back. “Doing what you all seem to think I should have a long time ago,” he replied. “I’m putting the pistol back into commission.”

D’Artagnan dropped his head forward. “Aramis, if you’re not ready…”

“But you were so sure of yourselves moments ago,” spat Aramis. “Having second thoughts about how I should deal with this?” Aramis looked at each of them with earnest. “Or do you wish I listen to more of your sage advice on how I should live my life?”

D’Artagnan moved to stand next to Athos. “Calm down, Aramis. We’re not trying to start a fight.”

“We just want to help,” added Porthos. 

“Consider your help received and appreciated,” replied Aramis. “Now if you will excuse me…”

Aramis left the room, but Athos knew the conversation was not over.

“Shouldn’t we be going after him?” asked d’Artagnan.

“Leave him be,” replied Athos. “He needs time to calm down.”

Porthos shook his head. “Yeah, time alone with that pistol while he’s in that mood… I don’t think so.” He rushed out of the room after his friend, leaving Athos with a burgeoning headache.

Athos grabbed the open bottle of wine on the table, drank straight from the spout and fell into a chair. “Do you have any aspirations of leading this rag-tag group of Musketeers?” he asked d’Artagnan over his shoulder.

“Maybe… one day. Why?”

“Because the job is yours if you want it.”

_~Musketeers~_

Porthos found Aramis in the back of the garrison’s training yard loading the notorious pistol that had started it all.

“Wait a second,” said Porthos, reaching for the pistol.

Aramis stepped away and aimed his weapon at a target set up against the far wall.

“No!” cried Porthos, rushing to stop his friend from squeezing the trigger.

When the pistol discharged, Porthos’ hands were wrapped around the shaft. The ensuing explosion burned the skin from his palms and sent him reeling backward. He clutched his hands together between his knees and looked up at Aramis. “You fool! It hasn’t been cleaned!” he yelled.

The pistol dropped from Aramis’ hand, landing in a small pool of blood accumulating at his feet.

Porthos looked at his burning hands. They were blistered but they weren’t bleeding. He then looked up at Aramis’ face and noted a sudden paleness.   Anticipating Aramis’ collapse, Porthos lurched forward and caught his friend before he landed on the ground.

Porthos searched Aramis’ body with frantic hands and panted breaths. “Aramis? Aramis?”

Aramis’ eyes were open and unfocused. Porthos grasped Aramis’ chin, held it steady and looked into his eyes. “You with me?”

Aramis’ silence had Porthos scampering to find the cause of the bleeding. He found it inside Aramis’ right elbow, where blood flowed fast when damaged.

Porthos pressed a hand over the wound. “I’ve got you,” he said, using his other arm to pull Aramis into his lap. “You’re not going anywhere. I’ve got you.”

He took a deep breath and looked back at the main garrison. “Help! I need help!”

Athos and d’Artagnan were the first to arrive, followed by several other members of the regiment. They gathered around Porthos and pulled Aramis from his arms.

“He fired…” stuttered Porthos. “He hadn’t cleaned the pistol…” 

D’Artagnan turned to him and helped him to his feet. “What happened?”

The blood in Porthos’ head dropped into his boots. He looked down at his blistering hands. “It backfired,” he said in a shaky voice.

“You’re injured,” said d’Artagnan.

Porthos spoke slow and quiet. “It’s nothing,” he said. “What about Aramis?”

“They’re taking care of him,” replied d’Artagnan, directing Porthos’ gaze toward the main garrison. “See? They have him.”

Porthos saw a group of men rushing to leave the training yard, a trail of blood spots leading back to him. “I tried to stop him,” he said.

“I can tell,” said d’Artagnan, nodding at Porthos’ hands. “Now let’s get you looked after.”

Porthos let d’Artagnan lead him back into the courtyard, never realizing the ground beneath him as he took one step after another. When he was sat in a chair beside a table in the infirmary on which Aramis lay, his senses returned to him.

“Aramis!” he called, rising to his feet.

D’Artagnan sat him back down. “Stay.”

Porthos tried again to stand but d’Artagnan was strong enough to keep him seated. “I need to see Aramis.”

“And you will,” replied d’Artagnan. “Just let them help him first.” D’Artagnan nodded at the men surrounding Aramis’ prone body before turning back to Porthos. “They know what they’re doing.”

Treville barged into the room and headed straight for the table. “Where is he? What happened?”

Porthos shrugged d’Artagnan’s hands off his shoulders and stood. “Captain.”

Treville turned to him, looked at his burned hands. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” replied Porthos. “Just help Aramis.”

“That’s my intention,” said Treville. He turned back to the table and shoved away a few hovering musketeers. “Let me see him.”

Porthos inched closer to the table, but d’Artagnan’s arm across his chest prevented him from getting too close. He heard Treville barking for sutures and clean clothes and knew Aramis was in capable hands, so he retreated back to his chair.

As d’Artagnan cleaned Porthos’ wounds with brandy and the bottom of his shirt, Porthos winced but never took his eyes off the table. By the time Porthos’ hands were bandaged he was ready to take a closer look at Aramis. He moved forward unabated by d’Artagnan, and stood next to Athos at the head of the table.

As Porthos watched Treville’s bloody fingers move up and down stitching the hole in Aramis’ arm, his body drifted closer and closer toward Athos.

Athos straightened him with a small shove, re-awakening his senses. Porthos cleared his throat and nodded at Treville’s stitch-work. “Do you think Aramis lost too much blood?”

“What happened out there?” asked Athos.

“Do you think Aramis lost too much blood?” Porthos re-iterated in a stern voice.

“He hasn’t woken,” replied Athos. “That’s probably a good thing. He can’t feel anything.”

“Or it’s not, and he can’t wake up,” said Porthos.

Athos pulled Porthos back from the table. “Tell me what happened?”

Porthos answered Athos in a hushed voice, his attention still on Aramis. “He was firing the pistol,” he said. Treville wiped away blood from Aramis’ arm. Porthos leaned toward the table. “It hadn’t been cleaned since…” Treville bent down to make another stitch. “Since, well, you know.” Porthos stepped away from Athos, trying to get a better look at the wound.

A firm hand grasping his shoulder pulled him back.

Porthos levelled his gaze on Athos. “I tried to stop him but the pistol must have backfired.”

“Are you hurt as well?”

Porthos shook his head. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

Athos turned away and sighed. “Well this is a fine mess,” he said.

Porthos shot him a fleeting glance and stepped away. “Yeah, yeah… fine mess.” He pulled up next to Treville and stared intently at the side of his captain’s sweaty face. “Aramis is alright, isn’t he?”

Treville wiped his brow on his shoulder, smiled briefly at Porthos and leaned back over the table. “I think we got to it in time,” he said. “Aramis will need some rest, and it seems he’ll get his wish to miss the competitions, but he’ll be picking off rats at fifty yards before we know it.”

Porthos held his stare on the side of his captain’s face. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, Porthos. Aramis will be fine.”

“Then I’m gonna kill him,” replied Porthos, before storming out of the room.

_~Musketeers~_

Aramis woke on a cot in the infirmary. His right elbow, stiff and pulsing in cadence with his heartbeat was bandaged, and his head swam with disjointed images. He saw Treville behind his desk pointing at a parchment. He saw Athos standing firm before him. He saw Adele’s sweet smile as she traced the scars on his chest. He saw a target on an easel across the training field… his pistol aimed toward it…

Aramis sat up. “Porthos.”

“I’m right here,” replied a soft voice.

Aramis turned to see his friend sitting next to the cot with two bandaged hands resting in his lap. “You’re injured.”

Porthos smiled. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

Porthos held up his hands. “Just some burns,” he said. “I’ll be making fists in no time.”

Aramis fell back to the bed. “The pistol backfired.”

“Quite spectacularly,” replied Porthos.

“I’m sorry. I was… so angry.”

“I know,” said Porthos lightly. “You should let Athos and d’Artagnan help you with that.”

Aramis raised an eyebrow.

“They helped me calm down,” continued Porthos. “I was an inch from taking your life before I came in here.”

Aramis looked at Porthos’ hands and stifled a smile. “Even with your handicap I would have most likely lost.”

Porthos pulled his head back. “You shouldn’t make light of this, Aramis.”

It was commonplace for Aramis to turn the tables on serious situations; always quick to respond with a witty repost or use politeness as a way to unnerve his enemies, but Porthos knew what really lay deep inside him. And after years of being Aramis’ closest confident, Aramis knew Porthos was capable of breaking the locks protecting his secret adversities.

Porthos understood that blunt force was the best way to approach Aramis when he was lost in despair. It was the only way to stop Aramis from insinuating his charms of distraction, so Aramis braced for impact, knowing full well he deserved everything his friend threw at him.

Porthos leaned over his lap, rested his elbows on his knees and thinned his lips. “You’re gonna follow through on what you said earlier and put that pistol back into commission.” 

Aramis frowned. “It wasn’t damaged beyond repair?”

“Oh, I hadn’t thought of that…” mumbled Porthos. He shook his head and reverted back to his stern expression. “No mind. We’ll fix it,” he said. “Then you’ll carry it at your side until it no longer bothers you to see it there.”

“Do I have a choice?” 

“Do I look like I’m playing games with you?”

Aramis turned his head away from Porthos to escape his threatening glare. “I suppose not,” he said quietly.

The languid nature of Aramis’ voice was a sign to Porthos that he had his undivided attention. Aramis knew Porthos would now respond with logic to which he couldn’t argue, so he turned back to his friend and waited.

Porthos smoothed his beard, locked his eyes on Aramis’ gaze, and raised his eyebrows. “It’s what’s best,” he said.

“Because you say so?”

“Because it’s the truth. By not using that pistol you’re giving power to the Cardinal’s revenge. Use it, and you’re proving to yourself that the actions of a spiteful man mean nothing to you.”

As hard as it was for Aramis to hear this, he knew Porthos was right. His friend no longer needed to validate his argument, Aramis would do whatever Porthos suggested, if only to appease him or, if Aramis was lucky, find truth and solace in his friend’s advice.

Porthos had never let him down in the past, and Aramis supposed he wasn’t about to start now, so he nodded his head. “If I must,” he said.

“You don’t sound convinced that I’m right about this.”

“I’m not,” replied Aramis. “But because I have trust in you, I will put trust in your words and do as you say.”

Porthos sat back with a surprised scowl. “Good.”

“Good,” said Aramis. “Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to get some rest.”

“Fine by me,” replied Porthos.

Aramis closed his eyes, but instead of hearing a chair screeching across floorboards or a door closing, he heard the continued soft breathing of his friend.

Aramis opened an eye and peered at Porthos. “Are you just going to sit there and watch me sleep?”

“Yep.”

Aramis frowned and rolled away from his friend. “Just don’t fall asleep there,” he said. “You snore.”

When Aramis next woke the infirmary was empty. Beside his bed on the floor by a vacant chair lay a bottle of wine and a half-eaten loaf of bread. “You are a true friend,” Aramis said, smiling at the tell-tale signs of Porthos’ lengthy stay. “But you were never one to last long in a chair.”

Aramis sat up, swung his legs to the floor and grabbed his elbow. “Forgot about that,” he said through gritted teeth. He waited for the throbbing to subside before rising to his feet where he wobbled on shaky legs. He grasped the back of the empty chair and steadied himself by taking deep breaths. 

His equilibrium back in order, Aramis crossed the room to where his doublet hung by the door. He slowly slid his injured arm into one sleeve, then his left arm into the other sleeve, and shrugged the coat over his shoulders. Below the coat hook was a small table holding his belts, sash and weapons, including the damaged pistol from the day before.

He secured the sash around his waist, followed by his belts, but the tightness of his heart prevented him from doing anything more.

_Oh, Adele…_

Aramis reached for the pistol, then retracted his hand. He’d promised Porthos he would do this, so he tried again. This time Aramis succeeded in wrapping his fingers around its worn wooden butt, but the thought of tucking it into his belt seemed insurmountable.

The pistol’s history weighed heavily on Aramis’ heart, reminding him of all the good times he’d shared with Adele. He turned it over and noted the melted pan and ran delicate fingers over where gold etchings used to decorate the barrel. Now they were burnt away in some sort of macabre memorial to the one he once loved.

Aramis looked up at the ceiling to stem his building tears and shoved the pistol under his belt. “I do this not to honour your death, Adele, but in honour of what we shared.”

“And to spite the Cardinal’s rotting corpse,” said a voice beside him. Aramis turned to see Porthos standing in the doorway.

“Don’t forget about that,” continued Porthos, stepping into the room.

Aramis recalled their previous nights conversation and smiled. “I will try my best,” he said.

Porthos hitched his thumbs into his belt and ran his eyes up and down Aramis’ body. “You sure you wanna be up so soon?” he asked.

“Is there not a fair we are to attend?”

“I think the captain will understand if you don’t make an appearance,” replied Porthos. He raised his hands up between them and tilted his head. “And I’m not exactly what you’d call up-to-snuff.” 

The bandages covering Porthos’ hands were clean, and Aramis saw his friend wiggle his fingers so he lay to rest any reservations he had toward Porthos’ recovery and smiled. “Shall we,” he said, gesturing out the door.

Porthos glanced at the pistol secured under Aramis’ belt. “You good?”

“No,” replied Aramis. “But I’m willing to be good, and that will have to suffice.”

Porthos chuckled, wrapped an arm around Aramis’ shoulders and urged him out into the hallway of the garrison. “Let’s go get that pistol of yours fixed.” 

“My friend, the purse is dry,” replied Aramis. “I haven’t the money to fix it quite yet." 

Porthos pulled Aramis closer and smiled a toothy grin. “I hear there’s a marksmanship competition offering a rather large purse?”

Aramis glared.

“Too soon to joke..?”

“Too soon,” replied Aramis.

“Then lets go fishing,” said Porthos. “I hear women love tendin’ to injured soldiers.”

“Especially ones as charming as us,” replied Aramis.

He allowed Porthos to pull him through the garrison’s corridors and out into the courtyard. His elbow throbbed, his favourite pistol was in need of repair, and the ghosts of its past still haunted him, but he continued onward out through the gates of the garrison into the city streets of Paris with a relaxed swagger he hadn’t had for a long time.

_~End~_


End file.
